


Replacement Opiate

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Cravings, F/M, Fluff, Reference to Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 02:09:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7148027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having broken his addiction to morphine, Erik still craves it from time to time but Christine helps him through it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Replacement Opiate

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anonymous Tumblr prompt: "Her kisses are more drugging than any morphine, and he's not ashamed that he's an addict."

The itch comes back upon him, prickling beneath his skin, demanding attention. He broke himself of the habit, dangerous though that act was, because he did not want to be _that_ man for her. For her he would be better, always better, he vowed it silently the moment she nodded her acceptance with those glistening tears in her eyes. And so he broke the addiction, eventually and with Nadir’s help, but it chases him, ensnares him, and it’s all he can to remind himself _why_ he is not that man anymore, and does not need that drug.

He has found something better to save him from that desperation, to spare him the nightmares and ease the ghost of the pain. Her touch, her kiss, so light and gentle. He is addicted to it, craves it to the very core of his being, but this is the addiction that will spare his life, not cost him it. She will not permit anything to happen to him.

She does not see herself as a warrior, but she is a lioness, stately and proud.

He draws the linen sheets tighter around himself and curls into a ball. The ache slithers through his skin, quietly whispering that he should go above ground for morphine to soothe himself. But he cannot. He cannot risk becoming what he once was, not now. She is only at rehearsal. There is no reason for him to be concerned.

She had already left when he awoke, the burning clawing through his arms. There is a dim memory of her kissing him, and promising to return as soon as possible, but he dozed again after, and now, now it’s an effort to merely hold himself together.

He is addicted to her, completely and irrevocably addicted. And there is nothing wrong with that, except when she _is not here_ and he cannot move with the craving desperation to find her.

The bed shifts, edge weighed down, and now there is a pair of warm arms wrapping themselves tight around his waist, fingers threading through his own and lips pressed to the back of his neck. The knot in his chest eases, the trembling lessens as she kisses him, again, and again, and again. She is here, she is safe. He knows that. _He knows it_ , and it is a little easier to breathe.

“I missed you,” she murmurs against his skin, voice humming through him as she presses another kiss to the back of his neck. “I missed you.”

His lips curl into a smile, and he raises her hand to kiss it, her fingers soft against lips, and it is so much easier to breathe now, his lungs expanding fully again, her lips still brushing his nape. “I know, my dear. I missed you too.” He is an addict, that is true, and he has simply replaced the morphine with another drug, but he would not give her up for the world.


End file.
